Page 46 of The Coach

The truth is, I have no idea what I’m doing.

But Jackson Knox is about to find out he’s going to be a father.

And I need to be the one to tell him.

I take a deep breath, look my best friend in the eye, and nod.

“Alright. Let’s go to Chicago.”

Chapter Ten

JACKSON

The sun is relentless, beating down on the practice field as I pace the sideline, arms crossed, jaw tight, pulse slightly off-rhythm.

I shouldn’t feel like this.

I should be locked in, focused on nothing but tomorrow’s home opener—the biggest game of my career so far. Instead, my mind is restless, unsettled, off its game.

“Run the play again,” I bark, watching as Dallas Connelly, our star quarterback, calls out the play. “That was sloppy. That’s not going to cut it on Sunday.”

Dallas steps back into the pocket, fluid and controlled, scanning the field before launching the ball with that golden arm of his. It cuts through the air, a perfect spiral, right into the hands of our rookie wide receiver.

Dallas jogs toward the sideline, grinning that cocky, all-American smile that makes him a media favorite. “That was clean,” he says, tugging off his helmet. “You good with the timing?”

I nod, but I know I’m not completely here. Something’s off. I feel it deep in my bones.

Dallas squints at me. “You sure? ‘Cause you’ve been weird all practice, Coach.”

I exhale sharply. “I’m fine.”

Dallas grins, unfazed. “Uh-huh. You look like a man who’s got something on his mind. Or someone.”

I give him a flat stare. “I look like a man who’s getting tired of his quarterback running his mouth.”

Dallas laughs, hands up in surrender. “Noted.”

I turn back to the field, forcing my focus onto the drills, the plays, the rhythm of the team. The defense lines up, waiting for my signal.

“Again,” I call out.

Dallas groans. “Jesus, man, we’ve run this like ten times. I know you like being a disciplinarian, but Coach?—”

I don’t budge. “And we’ll run it ten more if it’s not perfect. We need to be able to execute late in games, when we’re tired. Or would you prefer to just leave it up to fate? Hope the other team misses a field goal? Come on, Dallas. You’re better than that. Now do itagain. Or are you tired out already? Because it’s fuckingweek twoof the season.”

He sighs, but jogs back out anyway, obediently. I watch him drop into position, running through the motion like the pro that he is. But my head is still somewhere else.

Somewhere back in May.

I grit my teeth and shove the thought down.

Focus, Jackson.

I’m not the guy who looks back. I don’t obsess over the past. I don’t spend my off time thinking about a woman I spent one weekend with.

Except, apparently,I do now.

Because no matter how hard I try to lock in, no matter how much I bury myself in football, something in my gut feels unfinished.

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